


Network Connectivity Problems

by waltwhitmans



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, feat. Dolly Parton, learning how to ask for things, otp: wait that's my word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltwhitmans/pseuds/waltwhitmans
Summary: He hoped Pete was right, that he wasn't really sick, both for the sake of Pete's health and, a little selfishly, for himself. He didn't know how to take care of people when they were sick; he'd never had the opportunity to learn.Pete gets sick and Chasten takes care of him. That's it. That's the fic.
Relationships: Chasten Buttigieg/Pete Buttigieg
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	Network Connectivity Problems

**Author's Note:**

> So who else was sick over the holidays?

"I'm not sick," Pete said. "It's just a dry throat. The air is dry and the weather is cold so my throat is dry. That's all."

Chasten was not convinced. He was also a little irritated. He'd made the two hour drive from Chicago to visit Pete, for the long President's Day weekend of quality time together away from work and school, and Pete met him at the door with a cough. "It's that time of year," Pete added. "Everyone at the office is coughing." 

"Because they're sick, because it's that time of year too. Did you get a flu shot?"

"Yes," Pete said, a little short. "I get one every year. The health department films it and puts it on Facebook." 

"So you have a cold like everyone else in America. Stop fighting it." 

"I'm not fighting anything." 

"Mayors are allowed to take sick days."

"It's a three-day weekend. And I'm not sick." 

Pete refused to discuss the subject further, insisting on keeping to the already planned evening of Chinese food, craft beer, and Ticket to Ride. Chasten watched him through dinner, as they put the leftovers away and cleared the table, during the game. He hoped Pete was right, that he wasn't really sick, both for the sake of Pete's health and, a little selfishly, for himself. He didn't know how to take care of people when they were sick; he'd never had the opportunity to learn. When he was sick all he wanted was to be left alone to watch TV and wallow. They'd been together for less than a year and some territory was still uncovered. 

At Pete's request, they ended the game earlier than usual and went up to bed. Chasten tried making a move but Pete brushed his hand away. "It's not you," he said quickly. "I'm just tired. I had a long day."

"I understand."

"Lots of meetings." Pete yawned. "And phone calls."

"You don't need to explain your job to me, Peter." Chasten kissed him on the forehead. Was he slightly warm? "We have plenty of time." 

Chasten woke up the next morning feeling warm and cozy and completely content with his life. Bright winter sunlight cut through a gap in the curtains. He rolled over and was shocked to see Pete already awake, his face flushed and his eyes glassy and wet. "I knew it," Chasten said, before he could stop himself. "You are sick."

"Upon further reflection," Pete croaked, "I think you were right." 

Chasten sat up, put his glasses on, felt Pete's forehead. "Jesus, you're burning up. Where's your thermometer?"

"Bathroom," Pete said, waving one hand in that direction. "Somewhere. I forget." 

Chasten tore up the bathroom looking for the thermometer, found it behind an unopened tube of toothpaste in the cabinet. It was the old kind with mercury in it. Chasten rolled his eyes. Even Pete's medical supplies were museum pieces. He took it back into the bedroom, slipped it under Pete's tongue, kept time by looking at his watch. After a minute he checked the thermometer: 101.7. "You have a fever," he said. "What else do you feel?"

"Sweaty. Body hurts. Throat hurts. Congested."

Chasten thought back to his brief period studying nursing. Sick people were easily dehydrated, so above all else they needed fluids. He went to the kitchen for orange juice - which he put in a souvenir cup from the Brookfield Zoo, where the straw came out of the elephant's trunk - and two aspirin. Upstairs, he watched Pete take the pills and drink some juice. "You're staying in bed. I'm going to go out and get supplies." 

"I have supplies."

"Half a carton of orange juice and Florence Nightingale's thermometer from the Crimea are not enough. There's a CVS ten minutes from here, I'll run out and stock up." 

Chasten quickly showered, dressed in yesterday's clothes, had a cup of coffee and a leftover egg roll for breakfast, and went to CVS. He went up and down the cold and flu aisles a few times, wracking his brain for any useful bit of information and grabbing whatever looked like Pete might need. Cough drops, cherry flavored; a three-pack of Kleenex cubes; a gallon of orange juice, without pulp, because pulp was disgusting; a sport bottle of green Gatorade, because, as Chasten remembered from undergrad, green was the least nasty after a night of drinking; a new thermometer made of sterile plastic and powered by batteries; antibacterial wipes, to keep the sickness at bay; a few cans of chicken and stars soup and a sleeve of English muffins. It seemed like enough, or at least a good start. 

Chasten dragged his purchases into the house, unpacked it all. He fiddled with the thermometer until he got it on and tested it by checking his own temperature: 98.6. He went to check on Pete, bringing the thermometer, the cough drops, and a tissue cube. "How do you feel?"

Pete had kicked all the blankets down to the foot of the bed and was lying on his back, looking at the ceiling. "I think I died while you were gone," he said. "Sorry."

"No one is dying on my watch. Turn your head." 

His fever was a little better - 101.4 - but the bags under his eyes were the same shade as his irises. Chasten made him drink more juice before throwing a blanket over him. He left the tissues and cough drops within reach on the nightstand. "Get some sleep," he said. "I'll come back to check on you later." 

Pete pulled the blanket up to his nose and mumbled something that might have been "okay" or "thank you." Chasten couldn't tell. He closed the door on his way out. 

Chasten spent the rest of the day quietly passing the time, reading and playing Candy Crush on his phone. He put away the things he wouldn't need right away, called his mother to ask if there was anything else he should be doing - he figured she was an expert because he and his brothers had all survived their various childhood illnesses - and she told him what he already knew: keep him hydrated, let him rest. He finished washing up the dishes from the night before, picked at the leftover fried rice and moo shu pork. They were planning on going to a new brewpub that evening; Pete had talked it up as having cheeseburgers where the cheese was inside the patty. They had also talked about going to the movies, and they were planning on staying in bed as long as possible. But now Pete could barely move. Chasten went up to look on him every couple of hours. His temperature was inching down by a tenth or two when Chasten checked, but he didn't wake up when the thermometer went in his ear, and he was breathing hoarsely through his mouth. 

Pete woke up a few minutes after sunset. Chasten had two more aspirin, brought the carton of juice to refill Pete's cup. "I'm sorry," he wheezed, after swallowing the pills. He sounded like there were multiple frogs in his throat. "We were going to have fun this weekend. Go to a movie. Out to eat. Sex."

"It's not your fault, Peter. Blame whoever spread their germs." Chasten knelt on the bed next to him and checked his temperature again. 100.8. "Do you think you could stand to eat something?"

"What?"

"I bought soup. Want some soup?" 

Pete shook his head. "I don't want anything."

He looked so inexplicably sad just then. Chasten set the thermometer aside and lay down next to Pete. He really did look like hell. "You don't want anything to eat but I can tell you want something. I could put on a movie. I could play music. My mom used to read to me when I was sick. She used to sing too."

"Can you sing?"

"Usually only when I'm drunk. But for you I'll make an exception. Dolly Parton is my best." Chasten cleared his throat.  _ "Oh, I'm thinking tonight of my blue eyes, who is sailing far over the sea, and I'm thinking tonight of him only, and I know that he always thinks of me." _

"Very nice." Pete covered his mouth with his sleeve and coughed. "Can you - can you just stay with me until I fall asleep again?"

"Drink some more juice first." 

Pete obliged, then lay on his side in a loose fetal position. Chasten mirrored his position, met his eyes. "When you were a kid, did your parents ever do anything special for you?"

"Fruit pops," Pete said. "You know, the plastic tubes with the flavored ice in them. I lived on those. And my dad had this little battery powered TV that he would put in my room to keep me occupied." 

"Do you want to talk or do you want to sleep?" 

"I want to sleep." 

He was out within a few minutes. The flush in his face from that morning had faded. Chasten got up, gingerly, and turned off the light before going back downstairs. 

Chasten considered sleeping in the guest room that night but the thought of Pete waking up and needing him quashed that idea. He got ready for bed in total silence and slipped under the covers with the least amount of movement he could manage. He woke up a few times during the night because of Pete turning over trying to get comfortable, or by his breathy snores, or to make sure he got to the bathroom and back without walking into anything. He gave up on sleep at seven-thirty and watched Pete's eyes dart under their lids as he slept, wondering what he was dreaming about. Chasten would have been glad to lie there all morning just to be close to Pete. 

Pete coughed himself awake. "Chasten?"

"Right here, babe."

"I'm sick."

"I know." 

His fever was down a little more. Chasten brought him two more aspirin, refilled the elephant cup, and propped his tablet against a pillow to play  _ Parks and Recreation _ . "I'm going to get dressed and go out for a few things," he said. "Do you need anything before I go?"

"No. What things? I thought you got everything yesterday."

"I forgot something." 

CVS didn't have the ice pops, so he went to the grocery store. They were just plastic tubes of frozen sugar water and food coloring, but there were twenty in a box for 3.99 and Pete wanted them, even if he didn't know it. He wasn't used to asking for things when he was vulnerable like this. It was kind of sad - no, really sad, how he'd gotten used to taking care of himself because he'd been alone for so long, single and closeted and convinced that he couldn't have the things he wanted out of life. 

Back at the house, Chasten pulled two pops out of the box before putting the rest in the freezer and going upstairs, hiding them behind his back. Pete was awake, watching the show. Ron and Tammy were screaming at each other, then making out passionately. Pete paused the show. "I like the one where Leslie gets the flu but still makes her speech and gets everyone on board for the Harvest Festival." 

"Yeah, and when Andy tries looking up her symptoms he says she has network connectivity problems. Best joke of the show." Chasten passed the ice pops between his hands so they would both be surprised. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"I have something for you."

Pete closed his eyes. Chasten held up the ice pops: grape in his right hand, pineapple in his left. "Left or right?"

"Left." 

"Okay, open your eyes," he said. "Pick one." 

Pete was pleased with his choice of pineapple. They sat against the headboard and ate. "It's just like how I remember it," Pete said. "Overly sweet, and my lips are a little numb, but my throat feels better."

"You look a little better." 

"And I'm sitting up, too. Yesterday that seemed impossible." 

Condensation from the ice pops dripped on the sheets. Chasten could almost feel his tongue turning purple. "When I was a kid," he said, "and I was sick, my mom would make me Lipton tea with honey. She'd bring me the mug and I felt so grown up, drinking from a coffee mug like my parents. And she would put my blankets in the dryer on the fluff cycle to keep me warm. I still do both when I'm sick or feeling depressed."

"It's amazing how we hold onto to things from our childhoods." 

Pete was looking and sounding better. The color was back in his face and his eyes were brighter. After they had finished their ice pops Chasten threw the plastic away. "Do you think you could stand to come downstairs?"

"No," Pete sighed. "I think I'll stay here and keep binging, if I can stay awake. I might take another eight-hour nap." 

"The episode with the wedding is my favorite." 

The rest of the day passed quietly, just like the day before. Chasten occupied himself with reading - he tried  _ Ulysses _ but gave up after a few pages, and settled on  _ The Audacity of Hope _ \- playing Angry Birds, and listening to Dolly Parton's live album. Occasionally he heard signs of life from upstairs, when Pete coughed or blew his nose. He was sure what else to do. Pete wasn't going to volunteer the information. He got the ice pops and the tablet with Netflix in place of the battery powered TV. Scrolling through his phone, he remembered that he had Pete's parents' phone number. Pete thought it was a good idea for him to have their number and vice versa, in case of emergencies. Was this an emergency? Probably not. Chasten wasn't sure what else he could do, without a little guidance. Anne and Joe were very kind, very welcoming. They would help, of course, they would gladly give advice to their son's boyfriend on how best to care for him when he was sick. But this felt like a much bigger leap than just pressing the call button. He did it anyway.

Anne picked up. Chasten started by assuring her that everything was fine, nobody was in traction or in a ditch or anything, but Peter was knocked flat with a head cold and was there anything special he could be doing? "His fever's going down, he's staying hydrated, I got him the ice pops and he's upstairs watching Netflix, if he's awake. Is there anything else?" 

"Nothing comes to mind," she said. "I'm surprised he's letting you take care of him. He would fight being sick. Insist that he was fine. But he had a tell, when he was a little boy. He would suddenly get very clingy if he didn't feel well. If he crawled into my lap or started following me around the house, I'd know he was getting sick."

Pete hadn't gotten clingy, but he had insisted he was fine until he obviously wasn't, asked Chasten to stay with him until he was asleep, apologized for being sick, did as he was told. "He's feeling better," Chasten said. "I'm going back to Chicago tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll check in on Tuesday."

Chasten thanked Anne for her insight, ended the call, and went back to his book. He was in the middle of Obama's campaign for State Representative, and beginning to doze off, when Pete called his name. He put the book down and went up. "Do you need something?"

"Yeah. Can you make me some soup?"

Gladly. Chasten toasted an English muffin and dabbed a little butter on it, ladled the soup into a mug, carefully brought it upstairs on a plate. He sat with Pete as he ate his first meal in almost two days. "Chicken and stars?"

"It's more fun than regular noodles. And on sale, too." 

Pete was in a talkative mood. "Julian of Norwich had visions of Christ when she was sick," he said, dipping the muffin in the broth. "Hildegard of Bingen and Margery Kemp too. What do I get?"

"Me, to take care of you," Chasten said. "Besides, you'd be wasted as a nun." 

Pete finished the muffin and most of the soup. Chasten washed his hands after he rinsed the bowl and put the dishes in the dishwasher. When he got back to the bedroom Pete was lying down again. “I’ll be in the living room,” he said. “If you need anything, just holler.”

“Okay.”

Chasten turned on the evening news as he was reading; he switched to a PBS documentary on tigers after the news started to depress him too much. As he was finishing the chapter, Pete came shakily down the stairs, with a blanket over his shoulders, holding his tissue cube. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

Pete wrapped the blanket around himself tightly, sat down, and leaned into Chasten. “You know,” Pete said, “when I was a kid, when I was sick all I wanted to do was lie in a warm lap."

Chasten put his arm around Pete's waist. “Old habits die hard. I’m afraid I’m not very good for a pillow.”

“No, you’re warm. I like it.”

Chasten decided not to mention that he'd heard the same story from Pete's mother earlier that day. He closed the book, set it aside. His attention drifted from the tigers to Pete, watching the show. He did look much better, and he had the strength and wherewithal to get out of bed and come downstairs. Chasten knew he had to leave the next day, and it would be a few days until he came back. He thought about celebrating Pete's birthday a month earlier, how Pete had looked at him, close to tears, before blowing out the candle on his cake. He thought about broaching the subject of what was obvious to him, that Pete either didn't see or wouldn't admit to not knowing how to feel about someone taking care of him for the first time in his adult life. He realized that Pete was slowly moving from leaning on his shoulders to lying across his lap. He wasn't the least bit slick. "Just lie down," Chasten said. He grabbed a pillow from the other end of the couch and put it over his lap. "Here. Get comfortable."

Pete lay down, still holding the blanket tightly. Cute, if contagious. "Thank you."

They sat in companionable silence for the rest of the show, and through an episode of _Antiques Roadshow_. As the credits rolled, Pete said, apropos of nothing, "If you lived here we could do this every night." 

Chasten turned off the television. "The fever is making you delirious." 

"No, it isn't. I'm serious." 

"How long have we been together? Seven months?"

"Six," Pete blurted. "Wait."

"It'll be six months next week," Chasten said. "You think that's enough?"

"I do." Pete sniffled. "I think we're both tired of you coming and going, and I know how much I miss you when you're not here. I know that I love you and I know you love me."

"Are you sure this isn't a reaction?"

"To what?" 

"You spend your adult life to date alone and now I'm here, and you're sick and I'm taking care of you."

Pete twisted himself onto his back to look up at Chasten. "Are you saying this is some caretaker projection thing?"

"You drop this on me with no warning while you're sick. I have to wonder." 

"I'm sicker than I've been in years," Pete said. "I haven't gotten dressed in two days, I'm running out of breath just finishing this sentence..." He swallowed and took a deep breath. "But I think this is the happiest I've been since I moved here, and it's because of you. You're here. I don't need anything else."

He was serious. Pete was the most sincere and honest person Chasten had ever met; he was physically incapable of not being truthful. He only spoke the things he meant, and he meant this. The idea of living with Pete, moving into the ramshackle old house by the river, didn't fill him with the familiar nameless dread he got whenever he thought about the future. He did love Pete. He loved Pete more than he'd ever loved any man. Maybe it was quick but it felt right. In lieu of a kiss - Chasten may have been a romantic but he didn't want to get sick - he smoothed Pete's hair back, off his forehead. "While I also would have preferred three days of cheeseburgers, movies, and lovemaking," he said, "I'm just happy to be with you."

"So you'll move in with me?" 

"My lease is up in April."

"Will you?"

"Yes," Chasten said, and Pete smiled up at him, his first in two days. "I'll move in with you." 

They went up to bed. Chasten kept one hand on Pete's back as they went up the stairs. In the dark, quiet bedroom, listening to Pete snore softly, Chasten thought idly that maybe his destiny had just been sealed and from then on he would be with Pete, in that house, that bed. Pete rolled over and snuggled closer, still snoring. Chasten decided not to worry about it. 

In the morning, Chasten installed Pete on the couch with _Game of Thrones_, the bottle of Gatorade, and a plate of toast with jam, and got to work. He stripped the bed and changed the sheets, picked up the cough drop wrappers and used tissues and put them in the trash, cleaned the flat surfaces with the antibacterial wipes. If he'd had any sage he would have burned it. While he was hauling the sheets down to the basement for washing, he thought _God, I must really love this guy_. He corrected himself. Of course he loved Pete. He agreed to move in with him. 

"Normally I'm a blue Gatorade fan," Pete said, when Chasten came back from the basement. "But green isn't without a nice body."

"I always thought blue tasted like hand sanitizer." 

Chasten put off leaving as long as he could. He didn't want to leave Pete alone again. It wasn't until Pete started looking at his watch that Chasten thought about going. "You're going to hit traffic if you don't head out soon."

"You know I never want to go. And you're still sick."

"I'm rallying. You've nursed me back to near-health. I'm sure I'll be even better tomorrow." 

It was inevitable. Chasten packed the weekend bag he brought. Pete walked him to the door. "I promise, if you get sick because of me, I will come to Chicago and take care of you."

"Good. I'm going to hold you to that." Chasten put his arms around Pete, rested his chin on Pete's shoulder. "Don't go crazy tomorrow. Sleep in. Take a shower. Don't go on a ten-mile run. Go to work late. There's still soup in the cupboard and leftovers in the fridge."

"I'll be fine until Friday." 

"The thermometer is on the nightstand. Check your temperature before you go to bed tonight." 

"You're running late." 

"In a few months I won't have to think about that," Chasten said, and Pete squeezed him a little tighter. 

It was still almost three hours until Chasten got back to his apartment. He threw his laundry into the hamper, took a shower to wash off any remaining germs. He was in the middle of getting ready for class the next day when his phone rang. "98.7," Pete said. "I'm cured."

"Then go to bed," Chasten said. "Don't let it get a second wind." 

"Yes, nurse. When you come on Friday we can go to that restaurant. And talk about the move." 

"Absolutely."

"By the way, I looked up that song you mentioned - that's not how it goes."

"I didn't want to depress you further, blue eyes," Chasten said, and as Pete laughed in his ear all he could think was that soon he'd be with those blue eyes every day, and all it took for it to happen was a cold.

**Author's Note:**

> You can listen to Dolly Parton's version of "I'm Thinking Tonight of My Blue Eyes" [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/56bkZlnGJZWJaccSZinDEu?si=N8PeaG0TSCeFkRjfDOv7rA) and see a picture from Pete's first birthday with Chasten [here.](https://www.instagram.com/p/BAqS8Cogngm/?igshid=1tfxrurrcbx5f)


End file.
